


pulling my weight in gold

by xylophones



Series: make my heart beat out of my chest 'verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Music, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Implied Relationships, Katsuki Yuuri-centric, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Relationship, musicians au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10002665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylophones/pseuds/xylophones
Summary: Yuuri doesn't climb his way to the top. He just kind of trips and falls face-first into international stardom.(Yuuri is an anxious mess. He somehow figures out how to navigate life and learns to love himself.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the Yuuri Katsuki, international dance legend and unintentional heartbreaker, origins fic.  
> Title is from Weight in Gold by Galant.

It starts, like most things in Yuuri’s life, with Phichit.

They’re broke college students trying to make it big. Phichit is majoring in music while Yuuri fumbles his way through his dance major, trying not to injure himself. 

Phichit is kind of a genius. He's been self producing his music for years. A year into their friendship, Phichit asks Yuuri to dance for him. 

“Just trust me, Yuuri! It’s gonna be awesome!” Phichit beams up at him and really, that’s unfair, because Yuuri is never going to say no when his best friend is smiling up at him like that. 

“You say that every time, Phichit,” Yuuri says, already planning the choreography in his head. 

In the end, it  _ is _ awesome. Phichit has this incredible idea involving fairy lights and sneaking onto the roof of their dorm at 2 A.M. to film. Yuuri is certain that he’s going to fall off the roof or be electrocuted or, knowing his luck, both. But he watches the footage later, while Phichit is editing, awestruck. The lights reflect in his eyes, bouncing off his slicked back hair, while Yuuri twists and writhes to Phichit’s sickeningly sweet electronic beat. Yuuri watches himself dance, moving slow and graceful in the near dark; he’s made of the void, the space in between galaxies, bending light to wrap around him like a lover. Below him, Detroit’s city lights twinkle like stars. Phichit tells him he’s beautiful and, for the first time, Yuuri believes it.

They go viral, unsurprisingly. Phichit’s track is golden, his entire EP is. Before they know it they’ve got more YouTube subscribers than Ellen. Then the calls start pouring in.

“Phichit!” Yuuri hisses. He’s  _ this  _ close to having a breakdown and moving back to Japan, internet fame be damned. “I’ve got a call from the manager of The  _ Enterprise _ ! He wants to talk to my manager!”

“The Enterprise? The dance team?”

“Yes!”

“Give me the phone.”

Yuuri hands it over. Phichit flashes him a brilliant smile before promptly sitting on him and clamping a hand over his mouth.

“Hello,” Phichit says in his most mature voice. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki’s manager.”

Yuuri screams. It’s muffled by Phichit’s hand.

Later, Yuuri has an audition lined up with an almost 100% chance of success. 

“Really,” the Enterprise team manager had told Phichit. “The audition is just a formality. We’d really like him with us for a season or two.”

Yuuri tries not to freak out. It’s a losing battle.

“Phichit, we have to take our names off the video. We can’t keep answering calls like this! We don’t even have managers!”

“It’s fine, Yuuri,” Phichit says. He’s still sitting on Yuuri. “I’ll be your manager. And you can be mine. These are once in a lifetime opportunities! I don’t know about you, but I’d like to be able to pay rent without working at the shitty coffee shop near the university.”

Yuuri has to agree with that. The coffee shop is  _ really  _ shitty. Also, Yuuri needs money for new leggings. 

“Okay. I guess I’m your manager, Mr. Chulanont.”

“See, that’s the spirit! We don’t even need a real manager!”

As it turns out, they do.

“Don’t you dare take that contract, Phichit. It’s shady and everyone in the music industry is a blood thirsty leech.”

Phichit pouts. “We really need the money.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just do another audition with–”

“How are you going to do another audition, go to class, make it to practice, and organize my DJ gig next month?”

They end up at Professor Celestino’s doorstep. 

“So,” he says slowly, after Yuuri had vomited the entire situation out. “This is why you two have been skipping my music theory class?”

It works for all of them. Yuuri and Phichit manage to graduate and Celestino drags himself up from the depths of retirement. He’s got more connections in the music world than the dance world, but Yuuri is just glad he’s not managing things on his own anymore.

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing:

Yuuri was diagnosed with severe anxiety when he was twelve. 

He'd always been a nervous person: the type to double and triple check locks and stress about the small details. He didn't know it was a problem until his anxiety started ramping up, until it was bad enough that he'd pass out. 

The doctor tells him that what he's experiencing are called panic attacks. She tells him that he needs to see a therapist and prescribed him medication to try to lessen the crushing weight he feels daily. 

Mari asks him one day what it's like. She just wants to help, she thinks maybe if she can understand him she can help him better. 

“It feels like dying,” Yuuri tells her, his round brown eyes looking decades older than his actual twelve years. 

Mari sucks in a deep breath. 

“It feels like,” Yuuri continues, eyes on her but his stare is miles away. “there's no air. Like you're underwater or in space. You try to breathe but your lungs don't work. Your skin feels too tight.”

He turns to her fully, gaze locked on his sister’s horrified face. “Sometimes I think I'd rather die.” 

Mari doesn't leave his side. She looks up anxiety and panic attacks on the internet. She always keeps tissues and hard candy on her, because Yuuri cries a lot and he usually feels better after having something sweet. The age gap had always made her protective of Yuuri, but the diagnosis heightens it. That, and though their parents have been supportive and loving, they tend to freeze up when Yuuri has an attack. 

To this day, Yuuri is most comfortable when Mari is nearby. She calms him down the fastest and never,  _ never  _ blames him.

 

* * *

Here’s the other thing:

Yuuri is twenty-two and sometimes he still thinks he’d rather die.

 

* * *

He has a series of nasty panic attacks in the week leading up to a competition. He's always had them, but suddenly he’s so  _ tired.  _ He drills through the choreography until he can't feel his legs. Then, he wakes up, pumps an unhealthy amount of caffeine into his worn body, and drills some more. 

He performs well. His dance team is pleased with their rank at the competition. It's only a nationally ranked team but there are talks about breaking into the international scene. Yuuri feels faint. 

He makes it to the locker room before he passes out.

 

* * *

It turns out that Yuuri’s famous stamina does, in fact, have a limit.

 

* * *

When he wakes up he makes two key observations: 

One: his sister is beside him, her rough hand warm in Yuuri’s own delicate, dancer’s hand. 

Two: he’s in the hospital. 

“Water,” he manages to croak out. 

Mari manages to produce a water bottle without ever letting go of his hand. 

He wants to ask about the onsen, about his dance team, about where she got the money for a plane ticket, but then Mari is crying and calling him an idiot and Yuuri figures his questions can wait. 

He holds his sister’s hand and counts his own heartbeats on the monitor. 

 

* * *

 

Exhaustion, the doctor tells him. Also, dehydration, because Yuuri was too afraid of vomiting to even think about drinking water before the competition, which was a bad decision. 

He hit his head on the way down, which explains the headache. 

“You're twenty-two,” the doctor says. “Not invincible. You won't be twenty-two forever, Mr. Katsuki. You need to take better care of yourself.” 

Yuuri nods. Mari glares at him. 

“You're taking a break,” she says, no room for arguments. 

Yuuri tries to argue anyways. 

“Mari-” 

“No, Yuuri. We didn't send you all the way across the world to have you kill yourself with your dancing. You're taking a break or you're coming back to Hasetsu with me.” 

Yuuri doesn't say anything. He feels like anything he says will be overshadowed with the fact that he's saying it from a hospital bed. 

“I know you've been under a lot of pressure. Sometimes I wish you and Phichit had never posted that stupid YouTube video,” Mari says, tightening her grip on Yuuri’s hand. “But I know you love it here. And I know you need dance to live. You can dance without pushing yourself like this.”

“I need to be perfect, Mari. My dancing- it needs to be perfect, otherwise what's the point?” 

Mari looks at him. 

“Why do you hold yourself to such a ridiculously high standard? Don't you know we love you anyways?”

Yuuri doesn't answer. A small voice in the back of his head tells him that he'll never be worth her love. 

“Yuuri, please. Take a break. Focus on getting better.” 

Yuuri quits the dance team. Mari stays with him and Phichit for another month and she's brash and crude and Yuuri misses her terribly when she leaves. He sends the entirety of his prize money from the competition back home with her. 

Phichit has taken to bringing his laptop to Yuuri's studio and producing while Yuuri practices. He always seems to have an infinite supply of water bottles and hard candy. Yuuri suspects he's been texting his sister. 

Yuuri starts seeing a therapist again. Celestino makes him go once every two weeks, but after a while, Yuuri schedules a visit every week. He likes her a lot, she has a daughter his age who's a professional figure skater. His head always feels a little clearer after seeing her. 

Slowly, but surely, Yuuri gets better.

 

* * *

 

They decide to move to California. 

Yuuri has never thought of Detroit as home, but that doesn’t make it any easier to leave.

But, Yuuri  _ loves  _ it here. He falls in love with the rolling, deep blue ocean and the way it sparkles, turning and twisting white foam waves to crash against the shore; he falls in love with the perpetual sunshine, glinting off cars and sunglasses. He doesn’t mind the smog too much or the horrendous traffic. Yuuri has never been a city boy, but the longer he stays here the more Los Angeles seems to cling to him. He’s got his bones planted in the hard concrete lines and sharp glass angles of the city and, honestly, he wouldn’t want to leave anyways. 

Despite no longer being starving college students, Yuuri and Phichit still live together. They try living in separate places for approximately a week before Phichit shows up at Yuuri’s door and attaches himself to Yuuri’s side like a mollusk. He doesn’t mind though, he was about five seconds away from doing the same. 

They could probably afford a nicer place, but this small apartment next to Yuuri’s dance studio and across the street from their new favorite taco place is home. Yuuri sends whatever money he has after rent and food back to Hasetsu. Phichit spoils his younger siblings rotten.

“Phichit,” Yuuri says suddenly one night, washing the dishes while Phichit dries. “I think...I think I’m happy.”

Phichit places a glass back in the cabinet, waits for Yuuri to continue.

“I’m not– I can’t be– fixed, or whatever. This thing, my...anxiety...it doesn’t get fixed. But I’m happier, now.”

“Oh, Yuuri.” Phichit turns off the faucet and pulls Yuuri into a hug.

“You don’t need to be fixed. There’s nothing wrong with you,” he continues, his voice soft and melodic. Yuuri always thought that Phichit’s voice was a type of music on its own.

“I know– or at least, I’m trying to understand that. It’s difficult,” Yuuri mumbles into Phichit’s hair. “The move was a good idea. I like it here. And you and Ciao-Ciao, I don’t know what I’d do if–”

“Stop,” Phichit pulls back, grips Yuuri’s shoulders tightly. “You don’t need us to survive Yuuri. You’re a fighter on your own.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to, though. Fight on my own, that is.”

“You won’t ever have to.” Phichit turns the faucet back on and they resume cleaning up the remnants of their dinner.

(“I’m happy, too,” Phichit whispers to him later. Yuuri likes that Phichit knows when he needs to say something out loud, even if Yuuri already knows it.)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri has been preparing for this performance for his entire life. 

Phichit is lined up to win an award for best electronic album at the Grammys. The  _ Grammys!  _ They’ve asked him to do a live performance but there's only so much entertainment you can get from watching Phichit hit buttons on his laptop, so he asked Yuuri to perform with him. 

It's the original choreography from their first video, cleaned up and with a much larger budget. Yuuri agrees to rework the dance around a huge LED screen displaying Phichit’s hands working on his keyboard, but he draws the line at the back up dancers. This is their song, a throwback to their broke college days crammed in their shitty apartment in Detroit; Yuuri will die before he lets anyone else touch this choreography and Phichit agrees. 

The night of the performance Phichit is ecstatic. Yuuri wants to curl up in a small ball and  _ die.  _

He looks over at Phichit, clad in his snazzy glitter encrusted suit, practically vibrating with excitement. He can't let him down, no matter what. This is going to be the best performance of his life.

 

* * *

 

It goes abysmally. 

The thing that saves him, mostly, is the fact that he’s spent the last few months obsessively drilling the dance to the point where he can do it in his sleep. 

Yuuri's pretty sure the camera can pick up his shaky hands and he’s not sure what his face is doing but it can't be pretty. They kill the lights a second too early for the beat drop and completely miss the fantastic jump that took Yuuri  _ years  _ to perfect. 

Yuuri breaks his final pose when Phichit vaults over his turntables and onto the stage next to him. Yuuri is so disappointed in himself; this was supposed to be their moment and he's ruined it. Phichit had played beautifully. He deserves better than Yuuri's lackluster performance and– 

–and then Phichit is pulling him into a bone crushing hug and all of Yuuri's horrible thoughts go quiet. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit breathes out. “You were amazing.  _ We  _ were amazing.” 

Yuuri takes in the spotlights and the roar of the crowd and the warmth of his best friend pressed up against him; the two of them in front of the entire world. If he squints, Yuuri can pretend that the cellphone lights are the soft, starlike streetlights of Detroit. The stage is their rooftop, the roof is the night sky, and Phichit is the same, always a constant. Yuuri allows himself to fall in love with the magic of the moment. 

Later, Yuuri watches the performance back and decides it wasn't as disastrous as he first thought. He still meticulously catalogs his mistakes, but he doesn't beat himself up about it, for once. 

It's progress.

 

* * *

 

After the Grammys, Yuuri kind of explodes. 

They're calling him a living dance legend. There are Buzzfeed articles about him. Phichit is delighted. 

“You're mainstream now, Yuuri. Start using Instagram more often.”

Celestino is, of course, thrilled. Before, Yuuri had a fair amount of choreography and back up dancing requests. Now, people are asking him to star in things. 

“What do you mean  _ Beyoncé called?!”  _

Yuuri likes doing the music videos the most. It's easier to hide his mistakes and he's usually allowed to use as many takes as he'd like, considering how in high demand he is. 

“They're afraid to say no to you,” Celestino explains to him one day, after a shoot for a boy band that's offering him a disgustingly large amount of money. “They're afraid you'll leave if they say no.” 

“What?”

“Yuuri, You come off as very… cold. To those who don't know you.” 

“What.”

“You're a very private person. And you take your job seriously, which is good. You just don't come across as approachable.”

Yuuri is tiny and doe-eyed, much like a small woodland creature. He likes wearing soft cardigans to compliment his soft features. His voice shakes when he orders a coffee. He likes to hide behind his fluffy dark hair and too-big blue rimmed glasses. He's loathe to admit it, but Yuuri oozes vulnerability. 

Celestino reads his mind. “I mean when you're working. You're different, more intense.”

Yuuri… can almost see what he means. Yuuri  _ is  _ different when he dances; sometimes he feels like a completely different person. His mind goes quiet when he moves. He forgets to worry. He doesn't think, just breathes and feels the beat: tangles his fingers with the melody and fuses the bass to his bones. 

He's seen footage of his dancing, he knows he looks–

“–hot,” Phichit tells him over ice cream, later. “You look hot.” 

Yuuri wrinkles his nose. 

“You're super focused when you dance. Without your glasses and with your hair slicked back, it's like damn da–” 

“If you say ‘daddy’ I'm kicking you out of the apartment.”

“As your platonic soulmate, it's my job to make sure you actually  _ get some.” _

Yuuri frowns and licks his ice cream cone. “I don't want any.” 

“Listen I know you've pledged your eternal love to Viktor Nikiforov, but–” 

“ _ Eternal love?”  _

_ “ _ –you should try to live a little! Remember that guy in Detroit? That was fun, right?” 

“Tom?” Yuuri frowns. “We weren't dating. He just needed help with chemistry.”

“ _ Yuuri, oh my god.  _ He wasn't even taking chemistry, he just wanted to spend time with you.”

Well, that explains Tom’s inability to do basic acid-base equations.

 

* * *

Yuuri feels the need to defend himself. He's  _ not  _ obsessed with Viktor Nikiforov. And he hasn't pledged his ‘eternal love’ to him or any of the other ridiculous things Phichit has claimed.

(The thing with the posters, though, that’s true. Yuuri still has the scar from where that teenaged girl bit him, trying to wrench the limited edition swimsuit print from Yuuri’s hands.) 

Yuuri is a dancer; it's only natural that he loves music. 

Viktor Nikiforov’s music in particular has always struck a chord with Yuuri. Maybe it's because he was young when he first heard Viktor's debut single or maybe it's because his lyrics felt like they were made for Yuuri. He's never heard anything that resonates with him more. 

He has all his albums and every album he's been featured on, but Yuuri has yet to choreograph something to one of Viktor's songs. 

He’s afraid he won't do the music justice.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri doesn’t really comprehend the fact that he’s kind of famous for a  _ really _ long time. 

Okay, after the YouTube thing he figured he was at least a little well known. He chalked up most of that fame to Phichit’s amazing music. Yuuri had figured that the only reason he was noticed was because Phichit pretty much exclusively featured Yuuri in his music videos. 

Music videos which average out millions of views, a fact which Yuuri had pretty much forgotten about until it’s shoved in his face. Literally.

He’s just trying to buy groceries.

“Oh, my god!”

Yuuri almost drops his orange juice. He turns around, slowly, hoping that whoever is yelling so loudly isn’t coming towards him. 

As it happens, a small ball of red hair dye and flailing limbs is sprinting towards him at top speed. The kid almost bowls Yuuri over in his haste to get closer.

“Katsuki Yuuri!”

“Y-Yes?” 

“My name is Kenjirou Minami!” the kid yells. “I’m a big fan!”

“A fan? Of what?”

“Of you!” Minami then shoves a hand into his pocket and produces a phone which he unlocks and presents to Yuuri. “I’ve seen all of your performances, even back before your YouTube channel! You’re my phone wallpaper.”

Yuuri stares at the kid–Minami’s– phone and, yeah, there he is. That’s his face, stretched out behind the apps and toolbars. Yuuri feels vaguely like fainting.

“I love the way you dance! I mean I love Phichit’s music too, but when you dance–it’s something else. I want to be a dancer, too! I’m not good yet, but I’ll work hard. I promise! We’ll dance together soon!”

Yuuri opens his mouth, maybe to scream or maybe to vomit he’s not sure. He feels very overwhelmed. Yuuri’s about to excuse himself, to run away like he always does, when he actually, really looks at Minami.

He’s small and vaguely annoying, but he’s got heart. His enthusiasm is almost tangible; Yuuri is struggling not to get swept up in the waves of it that are rolling off the boy. 

He’s just a kid with an idol. Yuuri had been in his place once, he knows. Yuuri could break this kid if he’s not careful.

“Thank you for your support,” he says, and it sounds a little forced so he clears his throat, offers a warm smile, and tries again. “It really means alot to me. Do you want a picture together?”

They talk for a while longer and Yuuri learns that Minami goes to a ballet academy nearby. Yuuri signs his phone case, which has a picture of him from his dance crew days on it. He tries not to be weirded out as he presses a sharpie to the image of his own face and hopes his signature doesn’t look too shaky. Eventually, Yuuri manages to buy his groceries and send the kid home.

“Phichit!” Yuuri screeches when he barrels through the door of their apartment, a good thirty minutes after his encounter with his smallest biggest fan.

Phichit pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Yuuri? Is everything okay? Did you buy the orange juice?”

Yuuri hands him the juice and puts the groceries away to give himself time to calm down. Phichit is concerned.

“Phichit,” Yuuri tries again, calmer this time. “I don’t mean to sound full of myself, but… I think I’m famous?”

Phichit stops pouring his orange juice and gives Yuuri a  _ look. _

“I mean! I was recognized today!”

“Yuuri. You’ve been recognized before. Many, many times by many, many people.”

“Yes, but this was different! This kid had a picture of me in his wallet. And on his phone case and phone background. He asked for my autograph like I was some kind of celebrity.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit says again, slowly. “You are a celebrity.”

“I just dance for celebrities. That’s not the same thing.”

“You were on Ellen, Yuuri.”

“That doesn’t count,” Yuuri waves a hand, trying to explain to Phichit what a wild concept his supposed fame is. Him, Yuuri Katsuki: a celebrity. It doesn’t make sense. “I don’t know why this kid thinks I’m worthy of his attention, but–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there before you say something we’re both going to regret. Do I need to remind you about Ciao-Ciao’s rule about self deprecation?”

Yuuri eyes the jar, half full of quarters, on their kitchen counter. The words ‘Love yourself, asshole’ painted in Phichit’s elegant calligraphic script decorate the front. 

“Okay. But really, Phichit! I feel like– like I’ve lied to this kid. Like I’m tricking him into thinking I’m–”

“What? A good dancer? You are. Or what? Well known in the music community? You  _ are _ , Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s head hurts. He understands, objectively, that he’s been pretty successful. His bank account is proof enough. He’s struggling to wrap his head around the thought that someone could be a fan of his.

Phichit sighs. 

“Look,” Phichit starts, leading Yuuri to sit down on their couch. “I know this is something you struggle with, but I’m going to be blunt with you. You’re amazing, Yuuri.”

Yuuri immediately opens his mouth to protest.

“No. I’m not done. You had a movie offer last month, that’s a big deal! I’m not going to line up all your achievements because I know that makes you uncomfortable, but you’ve done a lot of things worth being proud of. You’re in a Beyoncé music video! That’s, like, top tier, dude.”

“Yeah, but I’m not like, an actor or a pop star or anything. I’m not like Viktor Niki–”

“I–,” Phichit almost shouts. “I am  _ literally  _ about to strangle you.”

There's a beat of silence. Yuuri fidgets. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit sighs. “I know that confidence is something you struggle with, but please, Yuuri– If not for yourself, then for me and your fans– please accept the fact that people look up to you. How would you feel if someone talked about Viktor Nikiforov the way you talk about yourself?”

Yuuri nods guiltily. He never thought thought about it like that. 

“Okay,” Yuuri says, and wonders how he ever survived without Phichit. “Let's make dinner.” 

That night Phichit persuades Yuuri to make an Instagram account. His first photo is a selfie of the two of them, sprawled out on their couch. Phichit tags himself and suddenly Yuuri has a small army of followers. 

(“Your fans call themselves the Katsquad!” Phichit informs him gleefully. 

“How do you even know this?”

“I'm their president!”)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wakes up one day and realizes that he needs to dance his illness. 

Phichit composes something just for him. Yuuri tells him he wants a love letter to his anxiety. Phichit makes a face, but he agrees. They stay up all night talking. Yuuri realizes that he's never told anyone about his mental health in such great detail, outside of his therapist and Mari. 

“Why are you doing this Yuuri?” Phichit whispers, his head tucked under Yuuri's chin. “You're such a private person. I don't understand why you want to tell the world about something you've barely told me about. It's obviously a painful subject for you, so why…?” 

“It's… cathartic,” Yuuri says eventually. “I've spent so long trying to pretend it doesn't exist. Hiding isn't working anymore.”

“Are you getting worse? If you need to see a therapist I'm sure we can get the money or-” 

Yuuri shakes his head. “I'm just tired. It's suffocating, even with the medication. I've tried to keep my mental health issues separate from my dance like…. like if it might taint it or something. Like it makes me a worse dancer. But I think I'd be a better dancer if I could just be honest about it, about myself.” 

Yuuri cards his fingers through his best friend’s hair. “Also, I figured that it's time I gave back.”

“Gave back?”

Yuuri nods. “Yes. I'm fairly successful. I want to be an example, for other anxious kids or other mentally ill kids in general. I think if I can make someone else fee less suffocated, then maybe I can deserve all  _ this.”  _

Yuuri waves a hand to encompass everything in his life. His supportive parents and his nice apartment with his best friend and the seemingly never ending stream of dance gigs. 

“Mental health is still a pretty taboo issue, Yuuri. Are you sure you want to do this?” 

“I've never been more sure,” Yuuri says, even though his heart thunders and his hands shake. “No more suffocating.”

“No more suffocating.” 

(They call him a role model, an inspiration. Phichit donates all the money from the track to Yuuri’s charity of choice. They start a campaign. 

Yuuri feels something in his chest loosen every day, until he's breathing deep and even.)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri regrets every decision he's made leading up to this point. 

He’s absolutely  _ hammered.  _

He's fresh off his VMA performance with  _ Beyoncé (!!!)  _ the sweat still cooling on his lower back. They're at an after party, him and his other back up dancers, and Yuuri is well on his way to dying of alcohol poisoning. 

He'd managed to stumble no less than 5 times during the performance, once almost taking out the guy next to him. In Yuuri's defense, a couple of hours ago he found out that his dog died. 

(He's trying  _ really  _ hard not to think about it, hence the copious amounts of alcohol.) 

Somewhere around his 16th flute of champagne, Yuuri decides it's a good idea to seduce Viktor Nikiforov. 

He knew, logically, that he'd be here. Viktor won a ridiculous amount of awards, probably a world record but Yuuri was too busy crying over his  _ dead dog  _ to pay attention. Yuuri knew that Viktor would be here, but it doesn't hit him until the party. He's just given the worst (possibly last) performance of his life and his idol saw every agonizing second of it. Now, they're at this party and Yuuri thinks the only way to scrub the disaster from Viktor's mind is to take him home and screw his brains out. 

Yes, Yuuri decides. This is the best course of action. 

He's still wearing the candy red heels and matching crop top that Beyoncé had managed to convince him to wear for the dance. 

(It was less her convincing him and more him tripping over himself to agree because it's  _ Beyoncé.)  _

Yuuri has nice legs. The 5-inch stilettos help accentuate them. Yuuri downs a bottle of tequila, winks at Viktor, and wraps his nice legs around the stripper pole that seems to have materialized in the middle of the room. 

Viktor Nikiforov will never know what hit him. 

(The next morning, Yuuri wakes up in a tangle of limbs in the back of Christophe Giacometti’s limo. He's wearing only his black boxers and his heels, his leggings and crop top nowhere to be found. He digs his phone out from under what Yuuri thinks is one of his fellow dancers, but he's not sure under all the glitter. 

His head pounds and there are what looks like four? Five? Different phone numbers scrawled on various parts of his torso. Yuuri thinks there might be some on his back but he's too afraid to check. 

Christophe lends him his suit jacket and drops him off at his and Phichit’s apartment. He insists on walking him all the way up, and so Yuuri is forced into the most awkward elevator ride of his life: international pop star Christophe Giacometti, Yuuri’s elderly neighbor, and Yuuri himself, sporting an impressive array of hickies. 

Phichit is at once elated and scandalized. Christophe immediately becomes his new best friend.) 

 

* * *

 

After the VMAs Yuuri stops dancing. 

He doesn't retire he just … stops taking gigs. Celestino emails him at the beginning of every month, like clockwork, with a list of potential projects. Yuuri rejects all of them. 

He barely remembers anything from that night; he doesn't remember his performance or the alcohol fueled pole dancing or how he ended up in a human garbage pile in the back of Christophe’s limo. 

Christophe tries to tell him about it, after reassuring Yuuri that no, they  _ hadn't  _ slept together, Christophe has a boyfriend. He tries to show Yuuri the pole dancing pictures but Yuuri begs him to never mention it again. He'd rather crawl under his blankets and fade back into obscurity, thank you very much. 

Yuuri tends to fall into depressive slumps when he's not dancing. Phichit and Christophe help, mostly. He's surprised with how protective Christophe is, given the fact that they've known each other for maybe a month tops. 

Christophe keeps mentioning Viktor Nikiforov, for some reason. Yuuri tries not to think about him. 

Maybe at one point Yuuri had a chance to stand as Viktor's equal, but not after the VMAs. 

Not anymore. 

Yuuri books a one-way flight back to Hasetsu.

 

* * *

 

If Yuuri loves Los Angeles he  _ lives  _ Hasetsu. 

The train back from the airport reminds him of how much he's missed Japan. He goes out of his way to find a beach just so he can breathe in the ocean air. It's the same one he sees everyday in California, the Pacific Ocean, but somehow it's different on this side. Softer, like him. 

Yuuri stands at the edge of the water until the sun goes down and his mom is calling him, asking why it took him so long to answer his phone. Yuuri doesn't know how to describe the tightness in his chest, the piece that seemed to slot into place the moment he touched down in Japan and saw the sea. He hurries back home and hugs his mom tight.

 

* * *

 

Five years is a long time. 

Yuuri has flown out his family to see him but he's never flown back to Hasetsu since he left. 

He steps into his childhood bedroom and it's like he never left.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri goes back to the beach. 

Everyday, he helps out in the Ibsen, gets groceries, hangs out with Yuuko, and then wanders until he finds himself back near the ocean. 

One day he hikes through a small Forest until the soil gives away to sand. On another day he finds himself at the edge of a cliff, Hasetsu spread out underneath him, perched at the edge of a vast, unforgiving plane of blue. 

After a week of this, Yuuri caves and starts dancing again.

 

* * *

 

He sneaks out of his house at 3 in the morning and jogs to Minako-sensei’s studio. He thinks about how he use to do this as a kid. It's a wonder he ever graduated with how many nights he's spent here instead of doing homework. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Minako glares at him when he uses his keys to unlock the door. “Also, how do you still have a key?” 

Yuuri shrugs. “You never changed the lock.” 

“Don't stay up to late,” Minako commands and shuffles back into her room. 

A second later she pokes her head out again. 

“Yuuri,” she says, softer. “You know you're always welcome here. Dance as long as you want, but if you show up to the onsen tomorrow dead on your feet, your mom will kill me.” 

“Thank you, Minako-sensei.”

“You're room is still cleared. No one’s used it since you.” 

Yuuri is overwhelmed with emotion, suddenly. Minako had kept his private practice room cleared, even when she didn't know if he'd ever come back. He vows to come back more often. 

He shuffles down to his room. It's exactly as he left it, just like Minako promised. Yuuri stares at his reflection in the floor to ceiling mirrors. He turns to look out the window and knows that if it wasn't nighttime he'd be able to see the ocean from here. 

Yuuri thinks about the line where the sky meets the sea and the rolling ocean waves and the overwhelming longing he feels sometimes, looking out at the horizon, an entire ocean away from his home. He thinks about how he chose his glasses frames to match the deep blue of the Hasetsu sea. He thinks about the siren call of Viktor's voice. 

For the first time, Yuuri Katsuki dances to a Viktor Nikiforov song. 

(It's a Disney song because  _ of course  _ in the year that Yuuri's been wallowing in his own self pity, Viktor's gone and become an Actual Disney Prince. Yuuri saw the movie in the theatre on opening day. He cried.) 

In the next two weeks, Yuuri perfects the dance. He gets Yuuko’s kids to record him by the ocean. It's artsy and whimsical and he's sure Phichit would approve. He uploads it onto his YouTube channel after 2 years of inactivity and watches the internet explode. 

“Really Yuuri, you should stop giving everyone heart attacks like this,” Mari says scrolling through twitter on her phone. “You’re number 2 trending, by the way.” 

“I don't even know what that means,” he says. “Also, I’m going back to LA.”

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri!” In a strange parallel to how he'd been sent off in Japan, Phichit is waiting for him at LAX with a giant banner 

“Have you been conspiring with Minako-sensei?”

“No,” Phichit lies. “Anyways, you're back! The apartment was so empty without you.”

“Ah,” Yuuri mumbles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It's nothing,” Phichit waves his hands in front of Yuuri, as if trying to disperse the guilt coming off Yuuri in waves. “I'm just glad you're dancing again.” 

“Me, too.” 

Yuuri comes home to an apartment full of friends, an only mildly annoyed manager, all the greasy LA fast food he could want, and an email from Viktor Nikiforov. 

Things are looking up. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A couple months later, Yuuri has three music video choreography jobs lined up, another appearance on the VMAs, and, apparently, a new boyfriend. 

He has no idea how any of this happened, but he’s not complaining.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> I was debating whether or not to include the story of how Viktor managed to convince Yuuri to date him in this fic or if I should separate it out, but this one ended up wayyyy too long so! expect a cheesy romcom-esque getting together fic sometime soon.
> 
> Also, yes, I turned Stammi Vicino into a moana song in this universe, but in my defense the moana song is catchier.


End file.
